Team Omega (18 page)

“I see,” he said, finally.  New York’s streets were as crammed with traffic as ever, forcing the car to a crawl as they finally reached their destination.  It didn't look a very pleasant place for children to grow up, although it did look better than the place where they’d fought the Young Stars.  There were a handful of children sitting along the road, watching aimlessly as traffic rolled past.  “I’ll have to escort you up the stairs.”

“Don’t come into the apartment,” Harrison said, flatly.  “The person I have to see doesn't like company.”

Jackson nodded as he climbed out of the car and opened the rear door. Harrison scrambled out, taking care to ensure that his briefcase was out of sight under the driving seat.  A handful of teenagers seemed to be taking an interest in them, cat-calling rudely, until Jackson allowed them to see the gun in his shoulder holster.  They backed off sharply, clearly unwilling to risk their lives for the sake of whatever their would-be victims might have in their wallets.  Jackson rolled his eyes as they departed.  A good six months in boot camp might turn them into something more useful than street thugs.

“We're not too far from Hell’s Kitchen,” Harrison said, as he pressed a buzzer on the side of the apartment.  It had been vandalised by someone, probably one of the younger teens, but it was still serviceable.  “Every so often, they talk about renovating the area, but it always comes to nothing.  The city is damn near bankrupt.”

The door opened and they stepped inside.  Jackson wrinkled his nose at the stench of urine; Harrison didn't seem to notice.  “Once we get upstairs, you have to wait outside,” Harrison added.  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

***

The exterior of the apartment was as grubby and filthy as the rest of the building.  Inside, it was warm and cosy, decorated in a Persian style that suggested that the occupant had wealth to spare.  Chester had often wondered why she chose to live in such a place when she was easily wealthy enough to move to Yonkers or somewhere else without so many criminals, but perhaps the answer was simple; she didn’t have the nerve to move.  Not that it mattered; her friends included people who were more than willing to use deadly force to protect her from harm.

Layla Ibrahim was a slight dark-skinned girl, her hair hidden under a black headscarf that made her look like a mourning widow.  Chester knew that she had been abandoned by her family after her superhuman talent—an affinity for computers and technology that made her an inductive genius—had manifested; luckily, the SDI had been willing to take her in and help her learn to focus her gift.  She would probably have remained in the covert team if she hadn't developed a form of anthropophobia that made it harder for her to cope with having other people nearby.  Instead, she hid herself away in her apartment and worked for pay.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Chester said, as he took a seat at the other end of the room.  He’d been around recent rape victims who were less skittish.  One of her hands was linked directly into a series of computers that had been taken apart and merged together, forming a whole that was greater than the sum of their parts.  “I won’t keep you long.”

Layla’s voice was very soft, still accented with her father’s native Iran.  “I know that you won’t,” she said.  “I trusted you enough to invite you here.”

Chester nodded.  “You have better sources than almost anyone else,” he said.  “How is the superhuman community reacting to the Saviours?”

There was a pause as Layla considered her answer.  “Mixed feelings,” she said.  “Some of them think that the Saviours are right; they
did
have the power to change what was happening in the Third World, and they did nothing.  And some of them have always liked the concept of...well, of might making right.  Quite a few of the ones who were uncommitted at the start have decided to join Hope and his band—and hundreds of mutants have already signed up.”

“Yeah,” Chester said, sourly.  Mutants got the worst of both worlds; they were unable to pass for human, while rarely being powerful enough to be useful to the SDI.  Small wonder that most of them were alienated from human society.  Even superhuman teams rarely considered them human, leaving them even more isolated.  Hope would have any number of loyal followers if he did manage to build his new paradise.  “Who has taken a stand against it?”

“JQ Public is the most prominent dissenter,” Layla admitted.  “Outside of the national teams, at least.  The problem is that it is very difficult to argue that the warlords should have been left in power, or that the...family Hope killed on live TV didn’t deserve their fate.  Even the ones who are shocked at what he did can't argue that he overreacted.”

“When all you have is super-strength, every problem looks like something you can hit,” Chester said. 

Layla nodded. 

Chester knew that re-educating the Congo would have taken a lifetime even without having to worry about anything else.  The CIA claimed that there
would
be resistance to the Saviours—all the more after Hope had told them their cultural quirks would no longer be tolerated.  Chester wasn't inclined to trust the CIA, but he found it hard to argue with their analysis. 

“What is he doing to recruit others?”

“Just asking,” Layla said.  “A handful of unregistered superhumans have already gone through Gateway’s portals to the Congo, along with tons of medical and food supplies.  New York has clearly decided to support the Saviours even if Washington is still a little unsure of where it will end.  Anyone who wants to go is welcome, it seems.  They’ve even accepted a bunch of normal human volunteers to serve as doctors or security guards.”

Chester smiled.  “How is he paying for them?”

“He isn’t exactly short of cash,” Layla pointed out.  “Sales of his action figures—Angry Hope, Contemplative Hope, Determined Hope—have never been higher.  Some of his money has been routed through Kyrgyzstan—and you know what that means.  Long-term, he’ll have to start selling the Congo’s mineral resources to continue to pay for outside help, at least until the governments agree to help out.  You’d think that they’d get off their butts and actually help.”

“It’s not that easy,” Chester said.  It was true; between the different factions in Congress who distrusted the Saviours, or international aid, or even the Secretary-General himself...it would probably take years to agree on how to help the Congo.  By then, the situation would have resolved itself one way or the other.

“You hope,” Layla said.  She picked a USB stick off the nearest table and passed it to him.  “That’s the data you requested, almost everything you wanted.  Some things...they don’t put in computers, just because of people like me.”

She hesitated.  “And Chester?”

Chester lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

“You warn Washington that Hope isn’t going to give up,” she added.  “He’s an idealist with the power to knock over mountains.  He isn't going to let your politicians prevent him saving the world.”

Chapter Eighteen

“I suppose that you have a good explanation for this?”

Jackson glared at the teenager, who stared back at him with a mixture of defiance and fear.  He’d been throwing eggs at the car when Jackson had come out of the building and caught him before he could run away.  Maybe he did come from a poor family, but his clothes were fashionable—and expensive.  He’d probably been egging the car for fun, not expecting to have to face the car’s owner face-to-face. 

“I...”  He started to reach for the knife in his belt.

Jackson caught his hand and twisted it, then deftly removed the knife and anything else that could be used as a weapon.  “I could drag you over to the police station, or I could kick the shit out of you,” he snapped.  Wanton vandalism got on his nerves.  “What should I do, I wonder?”

The boy started to whimper about the police and his rights. 

Jackson ignored the whimpering.  “I could see to it that you got thrown into jail,” he hissed.  “I could send you there—fresh meat like you would be very welcome in the pen.  You’d find yourself being called Shirley by your cellmates and spend the evenings bent over while they rape your ass, time and time again.  And the guards won’t do anything to help you.  They’ll probably join in themselves.”

He allowed his voice to harden.  “Or I could simply break both your legs and one of your arms,” he added.  “Would that teach you a lesson about picking on strangers?”

Ignoring the boy’s protests, he removed his jacket and used it as a rag to remove the egg from the car, before walking around it to ensure that there was no other damage.  It looked as if someone had tried to puncture one of the tires, but they’d been produced to military specifications; a mere penknife wasn't going to be enough to damage them.  He snapped the knife in two anyway and shoved the boy away from him, watching as the kid picked himself up and ran for his life.  Someone like that would graduate from idle mischief to serious crime and wind up spending more time in prison than out of it.

He looked up at Harrison, who didn’t seem to be perturbed by the violence.  That was odd, in someone who appeared to be nothing more than a Washington bureaucrat.  There were layers to Mr. Harrison that were kept well-hidden.  Shaking his head, he walked around the car, inspected the door and—just out of habit—checked for any surprises under the vehicle.  There was no reason to think that someone would have stuck a bomb under the car—and it was armoured enough to stand up to a small IED—but safety came first.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said, as he opened the door for Mr. Harrison and then climbed into the driver’s seat.  “Where do you want to go now?”

“A different address,” Harrison said, and passed over another card.  This one was a more upmarket address inside a gated community in upstate New York.  It would probably take at least an hour to get there, maybe longer if the traffic had become any worse.  “There’s no real hurry, I think.  No need to keep a specific appointment.”

Jackson nodded and started the engine, steering the car away from the sidewalk.  A quick burst of water onto the bodywork washed away the remainder of the egg, but he’d have to be sure to take the car to be cleaned before returning to base.  The guy who ran the motor pool would bitch like a motherfucker if the vehicle returned smelling of rotten egg, even if he hadn't complained when Team Three had returned with a van that had had its roof torn off by an angry superhuman.  REMFs could be so strange at times.

He was still smiling at the thought when he saw a superhuman fly overhead.  Grabbing his pistol, he held one hand over the emergency pager before the superhuman flashed into the distance and vanished amid New York’s skyscrapers.  Of course; there were more superhumans in New York than anywhere else, with the possible exception of the Congo. 

“Maybe nothing to worry about,” he said, to Harrison.  “We could go back to the base...”

“I would prefer to complete everything I have to do in New York in a day,” Harrison said.  Jackson couldn't tell if it was bravado, a sense that there was no real reason to fear—or absolute confidence in the operator protecting him.  And he
could
be wrong.  “Take us to the next address.”

***

Sparky—who liked to try to forget that she’d once been called Esmeralda Rodriguez—scowled as the taxi pulled to a halt in front of the gated community.  The instructions she had been given admitted no ambiguity, or choice; she was to report to a certain address precisely on time, or face the consequences.  What remained of the Young Stars, she'd been warned by their corporate backers, would depend on just how well she pleased their new masters.  Whatever they wanted, they’d said, she had to give them.

The taxi driver hadn't recognised her, but then that wasn't too surprising.  Sparky was a girl in a tight-fitting outfight who shimmered with electric light; Esmeralda was rather more subdued, wearing loose-fitting clothes and a golden cross around her neck, just like the good Catholic girl she’d been brought up to be.  The fact that her parents were shocked and ashamed of her lifestyle with the Young Stars—let alone the faked nude photographs that had made their way around the internet for the last two years—ensured that she rarely put her costume aside and pretended to be a normal girl.  But this time she had been told to come dressed as a civilian.  At least no one would take any notice of her...

Esmeralda held up the card she’d been given to the guard at the gate; he inspected it, then allowed her to walk inside the compound.  She felt his eyes on her as she walked away.  It was surprisingly large inside the compound, with a handful of apartment blocks for those wealthy enough to want security, but too poor to afford a proper house of their own.  Or perhaps they just liked the idea of being protected by a private security force.  She found the apartment the card pointed her to and pushed the buzzer; unsurprisingly, the door clicked open almost at once.  Fighting down the kind of fear she’d felt the first time they’d faced a supervillain—a fight that had been carefully choreographed for media consumption—she stepped inside and walked to the first apartment door.  It opened.

She braced herself.  Whatever happened, she’d been warned time and time again, she had to go through with it.  The survival of the Young Stars themselves depended upon it.

Inside, a single man sat on a chair, studying her.  Esmeralda had faced male attention from the day she’d first started to grow into a woman, but this was different.  The man—he looked oddly familiar—wasn't interested in her sexually, or even in her personally.  He seemed to be more interested in what use he could make of her than anything else.  It chilled her to the bone.

“Sit,” he said, flatly.  Esmeralda realised suddenly where she’d seen him before.  He’d been the man who had visited the hangout, the day three of her teammates had vanished without explanation.  The story she’d been told to give to the press was nothing more than pap for their consumption, but no one had ever told her the truth.  “I assume they told you why you were told to come here?”

“No, sir,” Esmeralda said. 
Sparky
would have stood up to him, but Esmeralda was too scared to be Sparky any longer.  Money wasn’t everything, she reminded herself; besides, she could retire from the superhero life and live for decades on what she’d salted away.  “They just told me to come to this address.”

The man looked...mildly annoyed.  “You
will
have been told that you have to comply,” he said, flatly.  It wasn't a question.  “The Young Stars owe society a great deal—and society is calling in the debt.  We have a specific task for an idealistic young woman such as yourself.”

Esmeralda studied him for a long moment.  She lacked the senses that higher-ranking superhumans possessed, so she couldn’t tell if his calm posture was anything more than an act, but he certainly
sounded
confident.  It would have been easy to draw electricity from the overhead lighting and fry him to a crisp, yet she knew that that would have consequences.  The corporate backers hadn't just sounded angry, even if she didn't know
why
they were angry; they’d sounded scared.

“Right,” she said, finally.  “What do you want me to do?”

A hundred possible scenarios had run through her mind, but he still managed to surprise her.  “You may have heard about the events in the Congo,” he said. 

Esmeralda scowled at him, wondering if she was being mocked.  Even a person without super-hearing would have heard about the Congo, and about the superhuman army that had crushed a dozen warlords and their armies without breaking a sweat. 

But the man had gone on.  “You may also have heard that Hope is recruiting other superhumans to his banner, to assist him in repairing the Congo.”

“Yes,” Esmeralda said, flatly.  What did that have to do with her?  The Young Stars had never been anything other than a corporate-sponsored team, enjoying the high life while making public appearances and putting their likenesses on everything from lunch boxes to shirts and jackets.  Avoiding controversy had always been their guiding principle; they’d rejected both Lord Gaydar and Little Sappho because of their alternative lifestyles.  Sure, they were registered superheroes, but they didn't fight
crime
...

“We need someone within his organisation to spy on him, discover his intentions and report back to us,” the man said.  “You will be granted a leave of absence from the Young Stars and join the superhumans supporting the Saviours.  Each week, you will be expected to report in to us...”

Esmeralda fought to control her anger.  “What...what makes you think you can force me to spy on a genuine hero?”

“I suppose we could say that he’s rather more than yet another celebrity posturing in front of the cameras while millions die of starvation, or disease, or because they were unlucky enough to be caught up in the middle of a war,” the man said.  “Tell me something, truthfully.  In all of your time with the Young Stars, have you ever done anything remotely heroic?”

The honest answer to that was
no
, Esmeralda realised, even though they had called themselves superheroes.  They’d never fought crime, or done anything more than mouth platitudes while raking in the cash.  And yet...she respected Hope for doing something, even if he had more power than all of the rest of the Young Stars put together.  They could have done something like that if they’d thought of it, or if they’d been willing to throw away their lives and money while attempting to make the world a better place. 

He smiled at her, almost as if he could read her thoughts.  “You don’t know what happened to your three teammates,” he said, dryly.  “They were caught in the act of murdering seventeen federal agents in the middle of a drug bust.  Right now, they are in jail—and the Young Stars will be tainted forever if it gets out.  You can do this for us, or you can find yourself charged as an accessory to murder while your corporate sponsors drop you like a hot rock.”

“No,” Esmeralda said, shocked.  She’d known that Youngster and Nova took drugs, Youngster because he was bored with what he could do legally and Nova because he wanted to maintain his bad-boy image, but she’d never realised they would stoop to murder.  And Siren had been head-over-heels in love with Youngster; she would have done anything for him, even helped to obtain drugs for the rest of the team.  But murder?  They weren't even allowed to exercise all the rights registered superheroes were allowed under SARA.  “That can’t be true.”

“I can show you video if you like,” the man said.  He tilted his head, studying her thoughtfully.  “What’s it to be?  A single mission for us?  Or a long stay in prison, during which the Young Stars are completely disgraced and simply vanish?  Your choice.”

“And after this is done, I suppose I’ll never hear from you again?”  Esmeralda asked, flatly.  “You won’t keep holding this over my head?”

“I don’t think that you would be helpful anywhere else,” the man said.  “If you do manage to save the Young Stars, we would appreciate regular reports on what you’re doing...but if you choose to return to civilian life, we won’t force you to continue to work for us.  You will have done enough to wipe the slate clean.”

“By spying on Hope,” Esmeralda said.  She thought as quickly as she could, but there didn't seem to be any way out of the trap.  The government—and she had no doubt that the man was working for the government, not now—would have records of what had happened; they’d be able to prove it and destroy the Young Stars once and for all.  Everyone who had once backed them—the corporations, the media, the teenage groups that considered them heroes—would unite in their horror at what the Young Stars had done, distancing themselves from the blame.  “How long do you want me to stay there?”